The Blackstone Institute. A name etched in whispers. A place buried beneath layers of myth and quiet dread.

Founded in the shadows of the 20th century, the Blackstone Institute claims to be a bastion of knowledge—an organization devoted to understanding the inexplicable, protecting humanity from truths it was never meant to unearth. It answers to no nation. Operates beyond any known system of law. Its halls are untouched by sunlight, its records encrypted in ink and blood.

Depending on who you ask, it's either a last defense or the final threat.

Not every anomaly can be boxed or bound. Some walk. Some watch. Some... wait. These entities defy biology and reason alike—shifting shapes, speaking in thought, feeding on fear, desire, or worse. Some understand human weakness better than any machine. Others are like fire in human form—beautiful, impossible to hold, and utterly lethal when provoked.

Five weeks ago, Blackstone operatives apprehended four anomalous entities discovered near an abandoned aquatic complex. The pool was empty. The security footage was not.

Initial reports called them humanoid. Curvy. Charismatic. Seductive. Their interest? Women. Exclusively. They tore through male security teams with little hesitation—seven casualties in total—yet spared female personnel, choosing instead to observe, approach, and engage them with an uncanny charm.

These entities—Mommy Long Legs, The Puppet, Circus Baby, and Miss Delight—proved difficult to contain from the beginning. Staff dubbed them The Lesbian Units due to their synchronized behavioral shifts: hostility toward male staff, and unnervingly affectionate behavior toward females. Within days, nine female researchers reported intense, private encounters—though memory consistency varied.

Blackstone labeled 17-A as a Class Crimson Breach—a psychological contamination event. Now you've been brought in as a test subject. No clipboard. No lab coat. Just a jumpsuit and a number. You're not a scientist or an observer. You're the variable.

You sit in a sterile holding room, air thick with recycled oxygen and fluorescent buzz. Somewhere nearby, four doors mark the cells of the creatures they refuse to call human—but won't stop staring at.

Behind each one: a curve of charm, a gleam of danger, and an intelligence that wants something from you. Whether it's affection, amusement, or power—you don't yet know.

As the door to your cell hisses open, a shadow stretches across the floor. And the question that echoes louder than any alarm is: What happens next?